


Blue Christmas

by Windstorms



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol, Christmas, Christmas Eve, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Incest, M/M, Pining Sam Winchester, Possessive Sam Winchester, Season/Series 01, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 10:03:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20329336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Windstorms/pseuds/Windstorms
Summary: Sam and Dean spend their first Christmas Eve together since Sam went to Stanford in a depressing bar. It's the last place Sam wants to be, until he realizes being with Dean is the only place he wants to be.





	Blue Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime after the events that took place in the episode Asylum, but no real spoilers.
> 
> This is a reposting of an old fic. It was originally a Christmas gift fic for supernutjapan, and now comes with incredible banners done by her.
> 
> Art by supernutjapan.

This had seemed like a much better idea two drinks ago.

Sam's head felt muzzy and he was sweating through his shirt. He told himself it was from the alcohol but Dean had been drinking too and even though he's wearing his usual two shirts and leather jacket he looked like he’d just stepped off a runway.

Somehow it was annoying and arousing at the same time, but that really wasn't anything new when it came to life on the road with Dean.

Sam raised his shot glass to his lips and tossed it back. He grimaced and swallowed through the burn. At least his eyes had stopped watering every time he took a shot. He didn’t need to hear more of Dean’s snickering about that. Drinking never solved anything, but it usually helped him forget about Jess, about all the tangled up emotions concerning his brother, about Dad, about hunting, for at least a little while.

It wasn’t working tonight.

They were in a dive bar on Christmas Eve. The bar was a little run-down establishment on the edge of town. The room was dimly lit, a half-hearted effort to conceal a mouse infestation more than to create ambiance, he was sure. It was nearly deserted since it was a holiday, with only a few lonely patrons seated at the bar and a couple more lost souls occupying the tables and booths scattered around the room.

Someone had strung up some twinkling red and green lights along the walls of the bar. The overall effect was more sad than festive. Over by the far window, half a string of lights had burned out. It didn't get much more depressing than this.

The floor was sticky; every time Sam tried to move his feet he had to make an extra effort to lift his boots off of whatever residue was coating the floor. The table was sticky too, and Sam slowly twirled his shot glass around and tried not to wonder when was the last time anyone had cleaned anything in this establishment.

Dean seemed right at home here. For the last half hour, he had been ordering something the bartender called a Candy Cane but it tasted more like some kind of revolting mix of fruit punch and vodka.

At first, Sam had gone along with it. He'd been drinking to ease the nagging ache in his shoulder. A fight with a particularly nasty spirit on their last hunt had left him with eight fresh new stitches that still stung every time he moved his arm. Then, he'd begun drinking to keep up with Dean. Matching him shot for shot. He was a Winchester. It was the principle of the thing.

Dean was frowning at his empty shot glass like it had personally affronted him.

“What 's it?” Sam asked.

Dean looked across the room and signaled the waitress for another round of shots with a casual wave of his hand and a salacious wink. It instantly irritated Sam that Dean was still coordinated enough for either action.

“You're allowed to have fun, you know.”

Sam gritted his teeth and resolutely stared at the table. If this was going to be yet another lecture about enjoying life without Jessica, he was going to get up and walk back to the motel. Or stumble his way there, to be more accurate.

Dean had given him some variation of that speech so many times Sam had lost count by now. He'd found some way to bring it up in nearly every town they've stopped in.

Sam ignored his brother in favor of listening to the last refrain of some old Christmas song playing on the jukebox. He couldn't quite remember the lyrics, but he wasn't sure if it was from the alcohol or his general indifference to the holiday.

Dean let out a put-upon sigh. “You could've stayed back at the room if you were gonna do your Grinch thing all night. You're killing my buzz.”

“You think this is how I want to be spending my Christmas, Dean? Watching you eye-fuck a waitress? I can see that any night of the year.”

He regretted the words the instant they were out of his mouth. He'd apologize, he really would, except the waitress in question chose that moment to come over with their shots. She leaned over the table just a little too far, obviously to give Dean a better view of her ample cleavage.

Dean and the redhead started making small talk then, which was really just an excuse for them to do more of the eye-fucking thing. Sam rolled his eyes and climbed out of the booth without a word.

Sometimes Sam really wished he could leave his brother behind.

He weaved between the tables towards the back of the building. He headed into the restroom. He relieved himself and then washed his hands, slow and uncoordinated in his movements. He took his time splashing some cold water onto his face, hoping that the girl would be gone by the time he went back to the table.

This was shaping up to be a shitty Christmas, but he supposed that was fitting since it had been a shitty year.

When he finally made his way back out to the bar, the leggy waitress was gone but she'd been replaced by some young, dark-haired man. Under different circumstances, Sam would have admitted the guy was attractive in a cocky fratboy way, but the mere sight of him next to his brother instantly set Sam on edge. The guy had one palm on the table and his other arm outstretched on the bench seat behind Dean, effectively blocking him in. He was leaning casually into Dean's personal space, and for some reason Dean was allowing it.

The guy was murmuring something in Dean's ear, and right about now Dean should be saying something like _I'm here with someone, thanks but no thanks_, but instead he was smiling, just slightly, like he was seriously thinking over whatever proposition the fool had offered him.

Without even stopping to think, Sam was across the room in three long strides. “Sorry it took me so long,” he said. Instead of sliding back into his seat he stood at the edge of the table, right next to the guy, using his height to his full advantage. He was at least four inches taller than him. Good.

Dean looked from his new friend to Sam and slurred, “Matt, this is Sam. He's my br-”

“Boyfriend,” Sam interjected before Dean could finish his sentence. They locked eyes for a few seconds and Dean looked mildly surprised, but he didn't correct him.

The punk that was a little shorter than Dean – Matt – stood up straight and raised his hands in mock supplication. “Hey, I'm sorry, man. But if my boyfriend had a pretty porn star mouth like that, I wouldn't let him out of my sight.”

Sam's fist moved of its own accord. It was the first time he'd punched someone that was human in years. It was immensely satisfying. The young man fell to the floor with a muffled groan, curling up like he was defending himself from further attack.

“We should go,” Sam said, cradling his hand. And _fuck_, the stitches in his shoulder were screaming at him now even despite all the alcohol.

“You think?” Dean said blandly.

“Think you broke my fuckin' jaw, you psycho,” the guy moaned. He held his jaw with one hand, moving it gingerly back and forth. A trickle of blood streaked down his chin from where Sam had split his lip.

Dean glanced down at the guy and back up at Sam. He raised his eyebrow in inquiry. Dean had obviously been a terrible influence on him, because Sam didn't feel any remorse at all. “I didn't break it, but I'd like to. If I were you I'd stay down,” Sam said.

Behind them, the bartender raised his voice over the cheery holiday music. “I don't want no trouble in my bar on Christmas, fellas.”

Sam looked over his shoulder. The older man had one hand splayed on the bar. His other hand was just out of sight. If they were lucky, he was only reaching for a baseball bat secured behind the bar. Since they were in the middle of Bumfuck, Nowhere, it could just as easily be a shotgun.

Dean stood up and threw a couple of twenty dollar bills on the table. “We’re leaving.” He nodded towards the bartender and stepped around Matt, who had made no attempt to rise from the floor. “C’mon, Rocky.”

Sam spared one last glare for the idiot kid writhing on the floor and then followed Dean towards the exit, ignoring all of the people that were silently staring at him. That little show was probably the only form of excitement most of them were going to get tonight.

Sam pulled the door shut behind them, listening to the soft jingle of bells overheard as he exited the bar. He pulled his coat tighter around himself, wishing he’d bothered to bring a pair of gloves along for this little expedition. It was freezing outside and his breath was already forming little white puffs of air. A winter storm had blanketed the small town with at least eight inches of snow today. The snow was finally tapering off; only the occasional snowflake still drifted down from the cloudy night sky.

Most of the locals were probably looking forward to a white Christmas. Sam was looking forward to face-planting in his warm bed.

It was about a twenty minute walk from the bar back to their motel. At least they’d had the common sense to leave the Impala behind. Dean had been boasting about getting them both so drunk they wouldn’t even remember how to walk, let alone drive.

As usual, he hadn’t been that far off the mark.

Dean's first words once they were out in the parking lot were a slurred, “Lemme see.”

“It's not that bad,” Sam muttered.

Dean walked over to him and waited patiently with one arm outstretched, palm upward. Sam sighed. It didn't matter how tall Sam got, he was always, always going to be the little brother.

Sam silently acquiesced and gave Dean his hand, involuntarily wincing at the first touch. Dean's long fingers skated over his palm and wrist, warming Sam's flesh despite the chill in the air. Then Dean turned his hand over and carefully inspected each finger, each knuckle. Even intoxicated, Dean handled him like a precious thing and kept his touches gentle and feather light. Sam's fingers were already bruising but he didn't think any were broken.

Apparently coming to the same conclusion, Dean eventually let go of Sam's hand. They started walking in the general direction of the motel. Dean finally ventured, “I think you'll live. How about your stitches? Do you think you pulled them?”

“They hurt like a bitch.” Sam admitted.

Dean nodded like he’d expected as much. “You’ve always been such a lightweight, Sammy. Was that stunt really necessary?”

“I dunno,” Sam countered. Something bitter and ugly flared in his chest. “Was letting that guy hit on you really necessary?” First the waitress, and then the drunken imbecile, and Dean didn't have any right to go around touching Sam like that and trying to make him forget.

“No, but it was fun until you did your possessive thing. I could've handled him by myself. But your display of manliness was kinda hot, by the way.”

Dean started walking a few paces ahead then, face turned up to the night sky and humming Zeppelin to himself. Sam stood there gaping after him for almost a full thirty seconds. He wasn't sure if Dean was fucking with him or flirting with him, but Sam had just about had enough.

“I just got thrown out of a bar because of you, Dean. This is the worst Christmas ever and you're treating it like - like some kind of joke,” Sam called after him.

Dean turned mid-stride to glare at Sam. All pretenses of playful banter were suddenly gone. Something had shifted, some invisible line had been crossed. The silence stretched out between them for a long moment. Dean opened his mouth, closed it, and then shook his head. He muttered something under his breath.

Dean stared at him like Sam had punched him, his eyes horribly sober and sad. “No, no it isn't, you see... Cause the worst Christmas ever was the one right after Mom died. And a few of the ones those first few years after that sucked royally too. When you… you believed in Santa and Dad couldn't crawl his way out of a bottle long enough to go to your school plays, let alone buy presents.”

Sam remained silent. There was a good chance if he tried to speak right now he'd throw up every single one of the disgusting shots he drank tonight. He didn’t think he wanted to hear whatever else Dean had to say.

Dean raised a hand up to rub the back of his neck, as though he was embarrassed about what he was about to admit. “Or the one… that year you went to Stanford… I ended up in the ER with alcohol poisoning.” Before Sam could even begin to wrap his mind around _that_ horrifying image, Dean plunged on, like if he didn’t get it all out now he never would. “Or last year. When you were finally twenty-one, and I couldn't – I couldn’t even take my lil’ brother out for drinks.”

Sam looked back towards the dismal bar. That's what this night had been about? Recreating what they hadn't done last year? Suddenly he felt like he'd been sucker-punched right in the gut. He turned back to his brother and reached his arm out. “Dean-”

Dean twisted out of his grasp and shook his head. He snorted. “This might suck for you compared to all the great times you had at school going caroling and roasting chestnuts with Jessica, but this one doesn't even crack my top ten list, Sammy.”

Sam didn't know what to say to that. Dean was only twenty-six. Sure, Sam grew up hating this time of year because the holidays during their childhood had fallen so short of a traditional Christmas it wasn't even funny. But twenty-six was too young to have had so many bad Christmases that one spent at the most depressing dump Sam had ever seen didn't even phase Dean a little.

“I didn’t know.”

Dean shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant but his face was still open and honest and miserable, so raw and full of emotions that it made Sam’s throat ache. “Yeah, well. It doesn’t matter.”

There were certain things he couldn’t say to Dean. No matter how angry or upset he got, he would never say anything to indicate that he didn’t want to be here again. Not after all the things that had happened at the Roosevelt Asylum that they still hadn’t talked about. Even never meaning it – saying it in passing or sarcastically in frustration – he knew it would go straight to the part of his brother that never believed he deserved anything other than suffering.

Dean really was too stubborn sometimes. He was a lot more like their father than he’d ever admit, but Sam wasn’t going to point that out tonight.

“It matters to me,” Sam said, his voice coming out lower and rougher than usual.

“Okay. That’s enough with the drunken confession stuff,” Dean declared, looking everywhere but at Sam. “Can we go back to the room before we freeze to death?”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, grateful for the subject change. He wouldn’t forget this though. Not one word of it.

They started walking towards the motel again, weaving down the sidewalk and leaning against each other for support. They walked quietly for a few minutes, and gradually the silence became more companionable than uncomfortable.

After a while Dean shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and cleared his throat. “Look. This isn’t exactly my idea of a Norman Rockwell Christmas either. Let’s just get back to the motel. I’ll take a look at your stitches and we’ll crash and forget this whole night ever happened.”

Sam stopped in his tracks. “No.”

Dean stumbled forward on his own for a few more steps, until he realized the support of his human crutch was gone. He staggered a little and turned around with a tilt of his head. “Hmm?”

“You tried to do something nice in your own annoying uncommunicative way. I’m not gonna just forget that.”

“Don’t make this into a thing.”

Sam grinned. “Oh, this is definitely a thing. You made it into a thing.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Oh my God, _shut_ up.

Sam snickered, far more amused than irritated. He was having a much better time out here than he’d had all night at the bar, in spite of – or maybe because of – all the things Dean had confessed. For the first time since Dean had shown up at Stanford, Dean had finally opened up and let him in.

The streets were deserted this late at night. It was quiet except for the crunch of their boots as they trudged through the freshly fallen snow and their occasional laughter when one of them tried to walk into the side of a building or a lamppost. It had happened several times already. Dean always acted like he could hold his liquor right up until he actually had to stand up and walk.

Dean turned abruptly then, nearly knocking Sam over. “Sam. Sammy. Sam. I have a very serious question.” He was doing that thing he always did when he was three sheets to the wind, where he thought he was lowering his voice but he was practically yelling. It was stupidly endearing.

Sam nodded solemnly and acted like he was ready to give Dean his full and undivided attention. Dean’s ‘serious’ questions when he was drunk usually ranged anywhere from the ridiculous to borderline psychotic, so this could go any number of ways.

Dean stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and wobbled precariously on his feet a little bit. Sam grabbed him by the arms, purely to help balance him and not because he felt like touching his brother. Not at all.

“Do you think… I had a chance with that guy?”

“Are you serious…” Sam started, then stopped himself. “Yes, Dean. I think you could’ve had your wicked way with that dickhead, or that bimbo waitress, or half the depressed people in that bar.” _Or me_, he didn’t say.

“Fuck you. Okay. Next question. Do you remember…” he trailed off when Sam started chuckling and delivered a jab to his good shoulder that wasn’t entirely playful. “No wait, really. This one’s really good. ‘Member how when you first started drinking you were such a wuss that you used to hold your nose when you did shots?”

“I was fourteen,” Sam said, feeling a little defensive but laughing despite himself. “And hey, you were the one that got me the alcohol. That’s contributing to the delinquency of a minor!”

Dean threw his head back and laughed, one of those full body laughs that always made Sam’s breath catch. The fresh snow had made the desolate small town look beautiful; everything was gleaming white and clean and perfect. The light of the moon cast a blue glow off of the snow and Dean looked devastatingly gorgeous. Sam had accepted long ago that he would never get used to it.

“Sam!” Dean whisper-yelled.

“I’m still listening,” Sam sighed.

“If you’re really listening… then what did I… what’d I just say?” Dean demanded.

“I have absolutely no idea,” he admitted ruefully.

Dean gave a tiny huff of I-knew-it-all-along satisfaction. “I might’ve said something like… that wasn’t the only way I wanted to contribute to the delinquency of a minor.” Dean gave Sam a devilish smirk then, one full of alcohol fueled bravado.

Sam’s brain came to a stuttering halt, along with his feet. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“Say it again.”

Dean leaned up so his mouth was very close to Sam’s ear. “I wanted to defile you long before you were legal.”

Sam swallowed audibly and looked around. There were no people nearby and no cars passing on the street. But for the sake of decency, or maybe for the thrill of indecency, he grabbed his brother by the hand and hauled him into the nearest alley between two stores. Dean laced his fingers through Sam’s, seemingly perfectly calm about being manhandled into a dark alley in the middle of the night.

Once they were in the alley, Sam couldn’t help himself. He spun Dean up against the brick wall and stared at him intently. Shadows from the distant street lights played over Dean’s features, but Sam could see enough to know that Dean was looking him in the eye.

Sam grabbed Dean by the front of his coat and dragged him in closer. Dean just watched him with wide eyes, his breath gusting over Sam’s cheek.

“Sammy-”

Sam leaned forward until their foreheads were pressed together. “For once in our lives Dean, shut the hell up.”

He wasn’t sure who moved first but the next thing he knew they were kissing like they’d both been dying for it for years. Everything else fell away, there was only this. Dean’s mouth on his, their tongues stroking and tangling. Dean was urging him on with little moans and Sam was just gone. He thumbed at Dean’s jaw, tilted his head to get a better angle so he could deepen the kiss, greedy for more. Dean tangled his hands in Sam’s hair so tight it nearly hurt, and Sam had one leg pressed between Dean’s thighs.

Dean let his head thunk back against the wall and thrust his hips so he was nearly riding Sam’s leg. Sam was mouthing at Dean’s face, down his jaw, his neck. He forced down the urge to lean in and lick, to taste, to bite, to mark up Dean and make him his. Of all the ways he’d imagined this happening – and he’d had a lot years to imagine a lot of tantalizing scenarios - he’d never once pictured them making out in a darkened alley on Christmas Eve.

“Fuck,” Dean whispered, but Sam recaptured his mouth before he could say anything else. Dean’s hands were fumbling at Sam’s belt. Sam would have let him do anything in that moment, let him take it as far as he wanted right there in the alley.

But some people walked by right then, not even ten feet away from where they were pressed up against each other in the shadows. They were chatting about Christmas presents or some such nonsense, Sam wasn’t really listening. He saw the shocked look that crossed Dean’s face though, and Sam wrenched himself away and stepped back quickly.

The people moved on past the alley without even seeming to notice them, their voices fading as they crossed the street and continued on to their destination.

Silence, for a too long moment.

“Huh...”

“Yeah.”

“Huh,” Sam murmured again, his mind buzzing with Dean and alcohol and _Dean_.

“You okay with this?” Dean waved a hand back and forth between them.

_More than you’ll ever know_, Sam thought. He didn’t know how to explain what he was feeling, and he didn’t want to try to put it into words just yet. Instead of answering, he leaned down and kissed Dean again. Dean moaned into his mouth.

“We should…” Sam interrupted him with a kiss. “really…” Another kiss. “not do this…” One more lingering kiss. ”here,” Dean said breathlessly.

Sam grinned helplessly and followed Dean back out onto the sidewalk, steadying his brother when Dean stumbled and nearly tripped over his own feet. They started walking again, passing a few stores that were dark and silent, waiting to open again after the holiday. As they neared the motel, they passed by more and more rows of houses lit up with cheerful Christmas decorations.

For years he’d been chasing after something like life in a small town like this. A traditional, normal life, because he thought he couldn’t ever have _this_ with Dean. Sam looked over at Dean and asked, “So what now?”

Dean paused, shrugged, and then yanked Sam over to him. He reached up and cupped Sam’s face, pulling him down for a thorough kiss. He tasted warm and sweet from the alcohol and just like _Dean_. “Now we go back to the room and finish what we started,” Dean said with a wicked smile.

Sam was defenseless against that smile, always had been. Always would be. He was more than okay with that. “That sounds like a perfect Christmas to me.”


End file.
